And then, when the sun finally made it over the horizon, orange-pink rays shooting out to douse the forest below me, my face warm with the golden light, I died.
And the trees swayed with the wind that had travelled all this way, from seaside to cliff, just to brush its fingers through the leaves and whistle.
And the tawny owls, heavy with their dinners, settled on branches, and closed their golden orbit eyes. Patient in their waiting for the end of diurnalty.
And the silver streak of river tumbles forward still, rushing and spraying mercury shine. The fish beneath nothing but sudden flashes of dull and brilliant light as the sun catches along their scales.
And the old Fisher with his stone-carved, time-weary face, leans back against the boulder to relax, thin line draped into the water.
And the mountain below me crumbles, infinitesimally, so gradual that the river itself may not be around to see it. The slow groaning shift of the planet changing inconceivably, irreversibly every second, but patient, patient.
And I too can be patient. I can wait out the rising and the setting of the sun, the steady sheets of rain against me, the vultures gathering to rend the skin and meat from my bones, the numbing decay of my own flesh, the crawl of seedlings eating my remains, pulling me into the earth. I can wait for the day that the sun, at last will breach the horizon, and you will come to lay with me.
YOU ARE READING
dogwood drought
Poetrycollection of my "poetry" might not be the most accurate description but I dont really know what else to call this mess. enjoy
